Who Lives Here? - a Writing Prompt Wednesday Story

Where Fleur writes a short story about a cabin and cookies.

My author friend Jennifer Chambliss Bertman has a great Substack newsletter; you may remember I wrote a silly story about flamingos on an elevator earlier this year. I forgot how much fun it is to write a story for no reason—no deadlines, no assignment, just… Fun.

Jennifer has weekly writing prompts, and this week’s one had me instantly thinking of who might be staying at this lovely cabin:

So I wrote a story, posted below.

I hope that you also remember to be creative this week, even if it’s just for the sake of fun. Maybe especially for that reason.

And I apologize in advance (not really) if this story makes you want cookies.

A Mother’s Retreat

by Fleur Bradley Visscher

The last mile was the hardest, and the mother really thought she might not make it. But despite the ozone pollution, the smoke (there was always a fire somewhere), and the deforested land, she finally made it to the cabin. She closed the door and fell onto the sofa, which smelled comfortingly of dirt and leaves.

The mother had a retreat once a year, on summer solstice which conveniently fell on a Saturday this time. Not that it mattered too much; the mother’s job was around the clock, twenty-four hours every day, like any mom. Exhausting, to say the least. This retreat was a lifesaver.

It was Friday, and she had it all planned out: stargazing from one of the hammocks at midnight, a forest bath, maybe a foraged dinner and a conversation with her friends. They were already here; she could feel it. Good friends were like that.

But this retreat felt different. The mother wasn’t just tired, she was empty. All that caring could wear a girl down, sure, only this time she felt like she’d given it all away. That well she carried deep inside, of love and protection, it was empty.

Compassion fatigue her friend Sunny called it. The mother felt like she might be right, and it made her afraid.

Would this retreat be enough? She needed to rest and recharge, but what if her battery was simply… Dead?

What if the world had finally broken her?

She dozed off on the sofa, and woke up to find it was dark outside. The mother had slept so deeply, she had a crick in her neck. A tiny fieldmouse had settled in her hair and moved to her shoulder when she sat up. The birds were chirping—it was almost dawn. The mother wanted to get up and greet her friend Sunny, but she felt glued to the couch.

There was a blanket made of earth and leaves, and she decided to lay back down and pull it around her, right up to her chin. Just five more minutes.

She woke up and it was dark again. The mother was so tired, she’d slept the entire day away.

There was a knock on the door. It was midnight; Moon was already high in the sky and nearly full, like a cookie with a bite out of it. The mouse scurried under the couch.

“Hello?” a small voice came from outside the cabin.

The mother thought of not answering. Maybe whoever was on the other side of that door would just go away and leave her alone. The mother had nothing left to give the world.

But there was another knock. She could feel the person on the other side really needed her to open the door. The mother was empathy, after all.

She got up, stiff as a board, and made her way to the door. When she opened it, she saw it was a child. A girl with dark skin, bright eyes, and hair in two neat braids, wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt with a faded logo. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the mother replied. She was still sluggish from all that sleep. “Who are you?”
“I’m Hope.” The girl pushed a paper and pen in front of the mother. “Would you like to buy some cookies?”

The mother took the sheet. “I’m the first?” She pointed to the blank sheet.

“U-huh.” The girl dropped her arms by her side. “I’m not good at this.”

The mother smiled. “You’re doing great. What’s the prize, if you sell the most cookies?”
“Trees.” The girl inhaled air. Asthmatic, probably, and struggling with the poor air quality that reached even this cabin in the woods. “For every box sold, we plant ten trees.” She smiled. “We all got to pick what we wanted. She pointed to the stars in the sky.”

The mother nodded. Kids had a way of knowing what to do.

“The birds asked. And then Moon.” The girl looked over the mother’s shoulder, into the dark cabin. “She’s my mom.”

“Ah.” The mother and Moon were close friends, naturally. It made sense this was her child.

“You having a campout?” Hope asked. “Looks like it.”

“Sort of. It’s my retreat.” The mother looked over the paper that had pictures of all the cookies she could buy. She liked the Mighty Mint, and the ones with the coconut sprinkles.

“Mom said to come here first.”

“Of course she did.” Moon knew how much the mother loved children. “Do I have to wait for the cookies?” The mother didn’t like that. Last time she bought cookies, she’d already forgotten about the whole thing by the time they arrived (although that was a pleasant surprise).

Hope thumbed over her shoulder. She had a red wagon, parked a few feet away. It was stacked with boxes of cookies in all different colors.

The mother smiled. She was hungrier than she realized. “What if I buy them all?”
Hope’s face lit up like a star. “Really?”
“Only if you have a few with me.”

Hope walked back to the wagon and lifted the handle. “Where do you want them?”
The mother pointed to the trees. There were two hammocks, tied to the trunks. They’d have a view of the starry night sky. “Let’s eat outside.”

The cookies were sweet and filled the mother’s stomach, and the conversation with Hope filled her soul. Moon knew just what the mother needed to fill her empty well: conversations with Hope.

And a few coconut-sprinkled cookies, of course.